I couldn’t recall any of the stories. All I knew were echoing voices, recollections about gypsies drifting between shifting realms of magical spheres in the insomnia of memory. They enchant the cities they invade and leave behind an illuminated rhapsody of time.
“Do gypsies sleep at night?” I asked.
“Why are you asking?” Grandpa said.
“Since I was a child, many stories have been told about gypsies,” I said. Grandpa looked at me, his eyes alert with interest.
“What stories?” He asked, his gray hair betraying his intense curiosity. It came to mind that gypsies appear when a city is asleep and by dawn, they cast a fog of lyrical mist over the landscape of dreams – sprinkling spells of excitement and forbidden truths on the streets. This is why I kept dreaming that a gypsy sorcerer read my palms and made predictions that shifted the astrological alignment of the stars, causing my eyes to glow in the night. I had attained a new state of wizardry in my new awareness of myself. I my dream I became a prince from an invisible realm of wizards and artists, who paints flowers in colors that blush with a radiant soul in the night and shine by day. The neon vision of my fortune in my dream life was revealed to me by the whispers of the gypsy queen. She held a compass at the helm of her garments, reading the invisible signs amid the formation of the stars. These imaginary images told her that our fortunes were at a crossroads. I woke up from my sleep, realizing it was a dream.
“You have gypsy eyes,” my grandpa said.
“I am not a gypsy,” I said in protest.
“There is nothing wrong in being a gypsy,” he said.
“Still, I am not a gypsy. I do not have magic in my eyes,” I said. The old man giggled, showing his broken and decayed teeth. His smile was reassuring. I relaxed and he held my hand.
“When you were younger, I told you stories about visitations of gypsies in my dreams and I cast the gypsy spell on you,” he said laughing. A frown came over my face. But he kept laughing. “Your eyes glittered in the dark, when I told you stories at night. That is how I knew you’ve got gypsy eyes,” he added. That night I looked at myself in the mirror in the dark. An emerald glow enveloped the room; that is when I knew my eyes glittered like that of the gypsies I saw in my dreams.
Kabu Okai-Davies, Phd, Novelist, Poet
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